


some people cannot handle a woman on the loose

by inthisdive



Category: Keeping Up with the Kardashians RPF
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-04-27
Updated: 2009-04-27
Packaged: 2017-10-24 22:24:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/268538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inthisdive/pseuds/inthisdive





	some people cannot handle a woman on the loose

*

It's not that Khloe doesn't love her sisters; she really does. It's just that they, with Kim's princess perfection and Kourtney's glamor poise, would just never get it, would never understand why she does the things she does, where she goes the nights they can't find her.

She doesn't know how to tell them and she doesn't want to see the looks on their faces when it all comes unravelled, when she's laid bare in front of them. What will the baby girls say? What would Bruce say? What would her fucking histrionic mother say?

It kills her, because Khloe thinks she knows exactly what her father would say: _It's okay; I love you_.

Khloe thinks about this in the yard with her knees drawn up to her chest and the moon like a spotlight; she thinks of her father and she cries.

She misses him so much.

*

It's the third night this week that Khloe has done this, and she knows she has to be careful. Too many nights out and they'll do more than notice - they'll cause a scene. It's what comes naturally to Kim, after all, and Kourtney isn't all that far behind, and Khloe will stop this from being a _very special episode_ of their fucking show if it kills her.

This is her time, and her time only. Her sisters do not get to breach this side of her, not now, and maybe not ever - because when she does this she is safe. When she does this she is just Khloe Kardashian. She isn't Kim's sister or her father's daughter (though she's always her daddy's girl), and she's not Brody's sister, she's just herself. Just a young woman who commands attention, catches eyes, and even turns heads.

Even here.

The Factory isn't exactly the quietest little gay club in West Hollywood at all, but it's not exactly _photographed_ when you're inside, and Khloe's not Kim, no one outside their bubble gives a fuck where she parties, what she drinks, and how she stumbles home. And that's all amplified in here, in the club. Khloe's a little in love with it and everything that it means - the way that it borders Beverly Hills and West Hollywood (two worlds collide) the way it's both new and old.

If her dad were alive and she was telling him everything, she'd say "It used to belong to the Rat Pack, Dad, it used to belong to Frank Sinatra," and he'd say that he always loved those cats, and Khloe would laugh-cry and hide behind her hair.

But he's dead and Khloe is saying nothing because she is not just another plotline, she doesn't want to see everyone fuss over _how Kim will take it_ , so she keeps it close to her chest like the bills tucked into her bra, and she dances.

And if God has an opinion about her total lesbian side, He keeps it to Himself.

*

The fourth night is a stupid idea, the fourth night is pushing her luck and she knows it, but Khloe doesn't care, because her favorite DJ is spinning, this girl named Dawna, and her mixes are so _hot_ that Khloe is kind of fucking relieved that lesbian DJs don't suck at flawless mixing and pop-rocking as much as Samantha Ronson, who Khloe still blames for a large part of her keeping-silent (Khloe doesn't do closets). When your ambassadors are a talk-show comedian in her fifties and an uninspired Brit DJ, why would anyone want to give their Glam card away for the ranks of being GLBT? Khloe hates flannel and sweater-vests.

But Khloe loves hot dance music, and the way her silver strappy heels, four inches of amazing, catch the strobe and make her look like she's floating. She loves the way her dress catches above her knees and clings; she loves that it's white, and how it gets shot through with the lights of the club. She loves that when she lifts her arms up and tosses her head back and loses herself in _being herself_ her hair streams down her back like it has a life of her own. There's no too tall, too ethnic, too built, too Amazon in this moment.

In this moment, Khloe feels beautiful.

When she stops to get a drink and leans against the bar, she fans a hand over her face and looks around. She smirks when she recognizes faces in the crowd - mostly men, C-list and below and striving for fame - and so upstanding and clean-cut outside the bar. One of them, a reporter, catches her eye, and before he can look embarrassed and slink away Khloe winks at him.

She's never felt like she's belonged before, she thought belonging was overrated and hokey and the equivalent of a fucking campfire singalong, but she likes the connections here. The sense of community - though she'd shoot herself before ever using those words.

And then she sees this woman from across the room, and shooting herself is pretty much the furthest thing from her mind.

*

The funniest part had been the woman asking Khloe if they could go back to her place; she'd obviously had no idea who Khloe was, thank god, and she'd had to say - no, there are cameras - and how insane did she even _sound_? But this was Los fucking Angeles, and of course she was in the business, too, and she didn't bother to ask, just nodded and held up her keys with a swing of her hips and a wicked smile.

Talk about the other half living. It was an apartment right in the heart of West Hollywood, and it was tiny and cramped and full of like, books and some of them Khloe knew right away as being legal, because... well. Because she'd seen ones like them before.

She'd wanted to a be a lawyer, she, this woman - charm in cheap shoes - explained with this sad LA smile. But law school was expensive and working for a home shopping network wasn't; there was something dark in her eyes through this pseudo-monlogue that drew Khloe over to her, to open her arms and kiss her like she was on fire.

Khloe doesn't offer her story, her lineage, her sister's ass: she offers lips over an exposed throat, a quiet keening, a finger that thrums and strums its way through those _other_ curls, a steady-fast breath in the dark of the room illuminated only by outside neon.

Khloe has nothing to offer but this - and Khloe gives every last piece of it to her.

*

"Where were you last night?" Kourtney asks with mild concern. Five minutes later, Kim repeats the question, and it's an interrogation.

Khloe tosses her hair and stands before them, tall and powerful, and dares them to keep asking without a word - because in her family, in this mashup of Jenner-Kardashians, a family of noise and attention, silence is the most powerful thing in the world.

Kim makes a face and Khloe holds her own and says nothing, and they stop. And for now, that's enough, and that's okay.

With both sides still separate but intact, she's almost whole.


End file.
